A little bit of everything.
A little bit of everything, is what I say when someone questions about my day.
In one such, little bit of everything day, fear is trying to creep in.
I remember how I justified fear, in conversations. I said, If not for fear, what else would drive you to it? Somehow there always seemed to be an agreement. Now, I admit, I might have been wrong.
Fear, like grey, like fading autumn leaves, like setting sun, like pausing rain, like the last note of a musical, like the time before a roller coaster races down; is incredibly beautiful and dangerously gruesome.
If everything can be defined relative to some other thing, is my definition of fear changing simply because my relative has changed? An event has occurred, which is impossible to stay still about and overwhelmingly terrific to describe about. Hence, the solace in questions. Mind numbing, spine chilling pain and grief into questions. Don't let fear creep into you, said a beautiful soul hundreds of miles away from me. But, does conscience escape fear? Does it acknowledge fear at all?
Fear.
Slithering slyly into a assumed to be, more so, could be happy soul?
Fear, little by little.
In small tiny bouts.
Like a sprinkle of water mid sleep.
Like a surprise, I always crave for.
Fear of not being so many people, places, cultures, smiles, love, moments, colors and apparently, time and need. Fear of solitude turning into routine, fear of the familiar scent of memory everywhere I go, fear of vanishing into absolutely a thin puff of air, unnoticed, at the other end, fear of incompleteness, fear of stillness, fear of lack of importance, fear of a plethora of fears, staring right into the eye with truck loads of possibility. And conscience? You work your magic on me. Work your magic on the blue of the sky and the black of the chimney, why not on whatever is supposedly guilty? Or do you try all it takes and slip away quietly? Conscience and fear. Probably like the grey between white and black. Grey, someone asked me to write about it. Grey was comfort and wanting, then. Grey is fear and conscience now. Not all that comfortable, not all that wanting, not all that amiable.
Is this an analogy to everything else? How when the relative changes, so does the definition.
The veins of routes within the world map right above my head, understands what this fear is upto.
The portrait of my picture, a happy birthday present, understands what this fear is upto.
The Violin to my left, longing to be embraced, understands what this fear is upto.
The unread books, the incomplete diaries, the dried ink, the lights gleaming towards the window, all understand what this fear is upto.
And yet, I turn to writing.
Are all those who understand what this fear is upto, in turn fear their consequence?
Only the next relative I associate it to can tell. :)
© Deekshita Srinivas
10th November 2016
20:50 PM
Feared, pained,calm and commonplace.
A little bit of everything, is what I say when someone questions about my day.
In one such, little bit of everything day, fear is trying to creep in.
I remember how I justified fear, in conversations. I said, If not for fear, what else would drive you to it? Somehow there always seemed to be an agreement. Now, I admit, I might have been wrong.
Fear, like grey, like fading autumn leaves, like setting sun, like pausing rain, like the last note of a musical, like the time before a roller coaster races down; is incredibly beautiful and dangerously gruesome.
If everything can be defined relative to some other thing, is my definition of fear changing simply because my relative has changed? An event has occurred, which is impossible to stay still about and overwhelmingly terrific to describe about. Hence, the solace in questions. Mind numbing, spine chilling pain and grief into questions. Don't let fear creep into you, said a beautiful soul hundreds of miles away from me. But, does conscience escape fear? Does it acknowledge fear at all?
Fear.
Slithering slyly into a assumed to be, more so, could be happy soul?
Fear, little by little.
In small tiny bouts.
Like a sprinkle of water mid sleep.
Like a surprise, I always crave for.
Fear of not being so many people, places, cultures, smiles, love, moments, colors and apparently, time and need. Fear of solitude turning into routine, fear of the familiar scent of memory everywhere I go, fear of vanishing into absolutely a thin puff of air, unnoticed, at the other end, fear of incompleteness, fear of stillness, fear of lack of importance, fear of a plethora of fears, staring right into the eye with truck loads of possibility. And conscience? You work your magic on me. Work your magic on the blue of the sky and the black of the chimney, why not on whatever is supposedly guilty? Or do you try all it takes and slip away quietly? Conscience and fear. Probably like the grey between white and black. Grey, someone asked me to write about it. Grey was comfort and wanting, then. Grey is fear and conscience now. Not all that comfortable, not all that wanting, not all that amiable.
Is this an analogy to everything else? How when the relative changes, so does the definition.
The veins of routes within the world map right above my head, understands what this fear is upto.
The portrait of my picture, a happy birthday present, understands what this fear is upto.
The Violin to my left, longing to be embraced, understands what this fear is upto.
The unread books, the incomplete diaries, the dried ink, the lights gleaming towards the window, all understand what this fear is upto.
And yet, I turn to writing.
Are all those who understand what this fear is upto, in turn fear their consequence?
Only the next relative I associate it to can tell. :)
© Deekshita Srinivas
10th November 2016
20:50 PM
Feared, pained,calm and commonplace.
